Down the Hallway
by egyptianmyth
Summary: Set before Millander killed himself, and before Sara made up her mind not to quit Vegas CSI. Millander has kidnapped Grissom, and when he is found, Sara makes a decision. GSR. 3rd chapter is meant to be read 1st. It does seem though, that my muse has left
1. Default Chapter

Title: Down the Hallway Disclaimer: Don't own the show, but I wish I did Summary: Set before Millander killed himself, and before Sara made up her mind not to quit Vegas CSI. Millander has kidnapped Grissom, and when he is found, Sara makes a decision. GSR.  
  
Sara Sidle walked down the hallway leading up to Grissom's room. She walked there with a newfound confidence; head held high, arms swinging defiantly at her side. She was a forensic investigator after all, and without such a stance, she would've never been able to face the gruesome looks of death that she did every day on the job. But as Sara got closer to Grissom's door, that stare-death-in-the-face stature weakened, and then slumped into fatigue. 3 doors away... 2 doors away... 1 door away... And finally she was there, her hand on the cool metal of the door. And then...  
  
It raced through her memory, an endless, dizzying fog of events. Her emotions screamed and blurred as she felt 20 different things at once. Fear, determination, vengeance. The FBI accompanied the team of fellow CSI's as the invaded what they were certain was the "headquarters" of Paul Millander-were he had been holding Gil Grissom for the last 2 ½ weeks. It was a huge, seemingly empty one-room warehouse, the smell of mold and the abandonment of time reeked from the sogging beams of its foundations. The FBI agents, in groups of 4 ran down to cover the seemingly endless corners of the warehouse with trained precision. Meanwhile, the CSI's scattered, most plunging strait ahead into the unknown-into this layer of a madman. And for the first, and possibly last time in their careers, each and every one of them had their weapons drawn. Sara, gun strait pointed strait ahead, watched as the agents ran, and then did the same after Warrick. "GRISSOM! GRISSOM!" She screamed, on her face a look of frantic fear. It was a look all of them wore, but unlike the others, the fear overpowered Sara. They made use of their fear by drenching it with adrenaline. Now, Sara was a seemingly endless distance away from Warrick, as he stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of a full-on run, his eyes bulging in terror. He spread his arms forward as if trying to prevent himself from falling off the edge of a cliff. Sara stopped herself, but not nearly as dramatically. She looked on from feet away, her heart pounding. Sara slowly lowered her gun. What in God's name had she found?! She wondered. Warrick whispered inaudibly, "it's him." He then, with great effort averted his gaze from what he had found, and turned to meet Sara's cautious glare. "It's him!" he shouted. "It's Grissom! I found him."  
  
Sara opened the door and stepped inside. 


	2. Warning Bells

She hovered there, between the threshold and the actual room itself, not quite sure what to do. She saw him lying there, and stayed frozen were she was, stunned. Members of the FBI and PD got to die the proud, loyal death for their country in the line of duty. Not Forensic Investigators. This never happened to them. So why was Grissom lying there right now, beaten by a psychopath? Why did this happen to Gil Grissom, head of a team of self- proclaimed "science nerds?" Sara shook her head, and as she had just about made up her mind to turn around and leave, Grissom looked up. "Sara!" he said, sounding amazingly refreshed to see a familiar face. Sara's head darted involuntarily in response to her name, and was immediately met by Grissom's bright eyes and the smallest of grins fluttering on his face. Seeing him, she broke into a beaming smile just as involuntarily as she had looked up just moments ago, though at a loss for words. She had come here with a purpose. She had so many things she needed to tell him. Needed him to know. They were all screaming in her head, begging to get out, and she used her ultimate reserves to keep herself from blurting them out, in one continuos stream. "Hi," she blurted, proving that at least her reserves had worked, the beaming smile still on Grissom's face. "Hi," he replied, as his fluttering grin turned into one of his full, bashful ones. Those ones so rarely seen. Those ones that came only when he was in a perfect mood, or when everything clicked together perfectly for him. Those ones that to Sara, were so utterly perfect in themselves. Sara took several steps into the room then, and noticed a chair, already by his bed. Both still smiling, she mostly out of embarrassment and the pleasing shock that every thing had gone well so far. She had come here with a purpose, that was true, she needed to tell him something. There were 200 ways to say it. Feel it. Know it. It was something that once said-especially to Grissom-would change her life forever. But what it was, she had no clue. She flapped her long arms at the chair. "Can I sit?" she asked. In response, Grissom gave her a long, slow nod, still grinning. "Of course." So she sat.  
  
It was then, when Sara really looked at Grissom, that she really saw the extent of his injuries. His battered, beaten face. Paul Millander was a sick wicked child who had inflicted a torturous temper tantrum on Gil Grissom. And each time she saw a new bruise, a new laceration, a new stitch, Sara's imagination played out in her head how they must have come into existence. She winced. Looked down at her lap. Tangled her fingers together, and then asked, in a choked whisper, "How are you?" as she looked up at Grissom, a pained expression on her face. Grissom blinked, trying to keep his calm and happy-to-see-you exterior up and running, which was easy enough in itself alone, but not when he was remembering how he got into the situation. "As best as can be expected," he replied, with a small shrug. It was the simple truth. He focused his line of sight on Sara, and asked that simple question: "How are you doing?" Sara swung her head down, and laughed quietly to her lap. Why was he asking her that? He was the one in the hospital, wasn't he? He was the one that almost died? She rolled her head back up to look at him, smiling, and began to stroke his cheek with the back of her thumb. She flashed back to that night on a case, several months ago.  
  
The team had been bashing in walls of a land lord's apartment knowing there was a body, somewhere. All the evidence told them that it was nearby, but were was it? It seemed the only place possible for the body to be was in the walls of the apartment, but that was yielding no results. A square room consists of as many walls as it takes to make up a square. And with ½ of the walls already knocked through, with the only hollow place holding an ironing board, the room was quickly running out of walls to kill. Finally, Grissom stomped out side onto the verandah. Sara cautiously eyed him as he went out, and then put down her tools, & not caring whether or not Nick or Warrick noticed, followed him outside. She found him pacing, wiping his forehead, breathing heavily, putting his fingers to his wrists. "Are you OK? She asked him. He looked up at her. "My pulse is 90. Usually it's 75. When it's 90, that's when I know I'm really angry," he snapped at her, his frustrated tone indicative that the statement was true.  
  
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she said to him sympathetically. "It's not me! There's a body in there, and we can't find it!" He let out a stressful sigh. "You can't play hero all the time, you know." "I'm not afraid of admitting that I'm wrong," he said, like he was trying to make an ignoring teenager see his point of view. "I just don't think I am this time." "Do you want to take a walk, get some air?" Please say yes, please say yes! She silently pleaded. "No." He replied as he shook his head, as if to say I'm fine, don't worry about it. And it was then she took the leap. Stretched out her hand, and stroked his check with her thumb and the back of her hand. Sara smiled and thought, the world needs more men like you, Gil. Grissom's eyes darted over to Sara's hand, wearing a look that seemed to scream What the HELL is she doing?! Warning bells screamed in his head, as he sat there, stunned, baffled, with no clue as to what she was trying to do, when she finally pulled her hand away, still smiling. Gil looked at her, that expression still on his face, as he waited the split second for Sara's explanation. And without missing a beat, she looked away from him for a millisecond, and still smiling, she shrugged, "There was some chalk," she lied. "Oh."  
  
The world needs more men like you, Gil, she thought. If only you knew. A single teat tolled down from each eye, and rolled in gentle, rushing lines down her cheeks. Gil looked at Sara's hand there on his cheek the same way he did that night on the case, warning bells screaming in his head. But it all came to a shrieking stop when he saw Sara's expression and the tears. It hit him like a slap in the face. He tilted his head, letting Sara's hand fallow the movement, allowing her the most minute flash of a grin, his expression asking, like that of a young boy: Why are you crying? Her hand still on his cheek, Sara slowly stood, leaned in, so close that her nose was touching his. She paused, her breath trembling on his lips. She could tell him everything now. Everything she felt, everything she wished for, regretted, yearned for. Her insecurities. Her personal opinions. Anything. Everything. None of what she came here tell him. No. Nothing. She closed her eyes, moved her hand to the back of his neck, and crushed her lips to his. They kissed with an indescribable flow. More tears began to flow quietly from Sara's eyes, still closed, as her body arched, fulfilling a ache that had been building inside of her since the moment they met. Grissom, like a fluid dancer, though dumfounded, followed the movements in her spontaneity. And then, just as fluid as the kiss itself was, Sara slowly ended it, drawing back, walking backwards, and begging Grissom's lower lip to follow in her decent. Grissom opened his eyes slowly as she did this, not quite sure whether the whole situation was even real, not even sure what to believe was going on at all. The kiss over, Grissom sat there frozen in shock, and looked at Sara. What the just happened?! His eyes seemed to ask. Sara slid over by her chair, knelt down by his ear, as Grissom still sat frozen, and bit her lip, savoring the taste of him with an overpowering nervousness. With her lips almost touching his ear, she paused again. This time blurting out uncontrollably, in the faintest of whispers: "Goodbye, Grissom." She slowly got up, and nodded so slow small that it was barley noticeable, satisfied. After all that confusion, she knew, that was what she needed Grissom to hear. As Sara walked away, Grissom turned in his bed to watch her go, and as she stepped out the open door, the both knew that she was never coming back. 


	3. Nightmares

Title: Nightmares

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: CSI's not mine, don't sue me

Author's Note: This is the 3rd chapter of this story, but it's really meant to be read as the first

For those who made reviews on my story thus far, I really thankful. You've all been incredibly helpful and supportive.

_Grissom appeared in the dead center of the room. He gasped as if he had had the wind knocked out of him, and maybe he had. He felt as if he his transportation—not to mention _being_ in the room—was somehow used, violated. Like a doll, suddenly placed into a random room of a doll house. As he gasped, the room, (or was it him?) Spun in around full circle, in a choppy, lightning speed, for him to see. _

_Everything in the room was a solid, crisp, blinding white. The walls, the floor, a window, whose sheer lace-like curtains, blew in the breeze just as icy and quick as his gasp.  And the room itself was painfully small. It was bare of any furniture, any necessities or utensils. And the only exits or entries were the window behind him, and a door, seemingly football fields ahead of him, the same echoing shade of white as the rest of the room, locked with three brass deadlocks, and a chain. _

_It was at this moment that an unexplainable fear sliced through Grissom. It was not just because of the room's deathly small size, but because at that moment, Grissom realized that this place was far from a doll house—but a prison._

_Suddenly, time began to go in the same choppy motions, but even faster than before, like someone was pushing fast forward on a tape.  With that, Grissom went from his standing in the center of the room, to crawling into the corner to the right of the window, his knees draw up to his chest, huddling there in blinding, desperate fear._

_At that very moment, something began slamming into the door with a ferocious rage. Grissom nearly jumped out of his skin and his hands flew from being huddling, to palms stark flat on the cold floor by his feet. Adrenalin began pouring through his veins, his palms sweating, the same sweat coursing down his forehead. His breathing became hard and rapid—almost a pant. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard that it felt as though it would crack his chest apart. _

_All the while, the vicious hammering continued, getting louder and louder with each slam. The sound, rattled through his head as much as it did the door, and made it incredibly hard for Grissom to think past anything but blubbering fear._

Oh, God, they're trying to get in! _He thought frantically, his hands turning into kneading fists. I have to get out of her I have to get out of here I have to get out of here, I have to get out of here I have to get out of here!!! _

_Grissom gazed up at the window, a lost and inhumanly scared child, and knew it was his only possibly option. But whatever shred of common since he had left told him that it would never work. He knew it was above the ground floor. But was it one floor? Two? Three? He had now clue._  
            _The slamming reached its peak. The door tore open. Grissom head, along with the rest of his body, made a rocket fire turn into the corner, as if he was protecting himself from flying shrapnel.  Oh God! Please don't let him kill me!!_

With that, Grissom awoke, snapping up in his bed, stark strait, breathing hard, continuous gasps, like a swimmer coming up for air. His body was covered in a cold clammy sweat, and his sheets were constricted around him, a tell tale sign of endless tossing and turning. 

A sun window just above his headboard portrayed the unexpected summer rain (though it was more like a pour) taking place outside in the glowing Las Vegas night. Grissom took a moment to collect and calm himself—though it didn't really work--and whipped a trembling hand over his face, then forced himself to turn his head and check the time on the alarm clock that was placed on the night stand by his bed.

The glowing numbers told him that he was more than 45 minutes late for the late night/early morning meet he had arranged back at the lab. With a definitive sigh, Grissom swung his legs over to the side of the bed facing his closet, and shook his head in his hands. _What am I doing to myself?__  He thought. He then hurriedly got himself dressed, and sloppily ran out the door._


End file.
